


Abort, Retry, Fail?

by malyce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, F/M, Kink Meme, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malyce/pseuds/malyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the kink meme: "Molly starts seeing someone, and asexual! Sherlock gets jealous.  He doesn't want a relationship with her, but he also doesn't want her wasting her time with an idiot.  Plus, he kind of misses her flirting with him."  I ended up taking this in a totally different direction, and this was the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He started talking to Molly Hooper one night because there was no one else in the morgue, unless he counted the bodies he was examining for signs of any sort of attack. He wasn't desperate for company, exactly, but Mrs. Hudson had said that talking to corpses was crossing a line where sanity was concerned. Objectively, he has to agree with her. His mind works more efficiently when he can say things out loud to someone else, and besides, who doesn't like having an audience?  
  
Molly isn't as smart as he is, but she's also not as stupid as most people. She can keep up when he explains how he worked out what the killer had for dinner last night or why the brand of tobacco the victim smoked might be significant. She watches him update his website and chats about her mother, her cat, or some other mundane nonsense that somehow, makes his mind go quiet for only a few minutes. She usually sits next to him during her coffee breaks, with her own blog editor open. She has only updated it with a handful of entries, and Sherlock suspects she gets more joy out of changing the background to different shades of pink than adding entries to it. Still, she's pleasant company and he needs a sounding board when he has a new theory.  
  
Then, one day, everything changes.  
  
She starts wearing lipstick, and he immediately knows that something isn't right. This is confirmed when she asks if he'd like to go out for coffee.  
  
Except she doesn't mean _coffee_. She means something else entirely, and it makes him feel out of focus when people say one thing but mean another. He doesn't mind liars, mostly because he can see through them so easily, but this is not a lie, not exactly. It's a code. It's an invitation that could possibly lead to other invitations.   
  
_Coffee would be fine, so long as you understand we're never going to wind up in bed together._ He knows from past experience that this is the wrong thing to say, but nobody has ever told him what other options there are.   
  
Sex with anyone, even Molly, sounds about as appealing as doing push ups on top of someone else's sweaty gym clothes. He can appreciate the need for companionship even if romance seems like a waste of perfectly good neurons. He wishes there were a third option, one besides “yes” or “no.” He could take her out for coffee or to see a movie or do whatever it is people do on dates (He isn't sure, and he knows he's not allowed to ask). They could go back to his flat and he could make tea while they talked about the effects of chemical compounds on human flesh.   
  
He isn't sure what he can say, what he can do to make things go back to being the way they were and to make Molly's IQ stop dropping about a hundred points when he walks into the room. So he does the obvious thing.  
  
He deletes her.  
  
It isn't permanent, he tells himself. He just wants to set her aside until things go back to the way they were. It's the best thing for both of them, and isn't it better to ignore her for a while than to lead her on?  
  
When he meets John Watson, he knows he has made the right decision. He's a doctor, like Molly, and he's quick on the uptake and can follow Sherlock's train of thought. Perfect.   
  
It will take a little while to reconfigure the settings on his hard drive, so to speak. Until then, he thinks he may have found a temporary substitute. He doesn't look at Molly; is careful not to look at her as they leave the room, but there's a sad look in her eyes that he barely registers as they walk out. With some effort, he mentally discards that little detail.


	2. Chapter 2

He is annoyed to find that deleting a human being is a lot more complicated than forgetting the circumference of Jupiter. For one thing, the planet Jupiter doesn't look up at him with wide eyes when he walks into the morgue, the question written in boldface across its features: "What did I do to make you so angry you stopped talking to me altogether?" He has to suppress the urge to mention it, to scream, "It's _nothing._ I just can't have you _liking_ me, that's all."   
  
On the bright side, John (he has finally stopped referring to him as "Molly's replacement" in his mind) has not moved out of his flat yet. He complains about the body parts in the refrigerator and the muffled explosions that occasionally come from Sherlock's bedroom, but he stays out of Sherlock's way when he needs to think. They are together almost constantly because John seems to fit his life in a way that few other people ever have. There's still the matter of _her_ memories refusing to be completely erased. He wonders if he can possibly reconfigure his settings to allow both of them into his life in some way. He still needs Molly.   
  
He _needs_ her to be in the morgue and in her proper place, not at the center of his life, but distantly orbiting it at least. That's why he is waiting for her in the cafeteria with something on his plate that barely passes for food. Even though he'd rather be in the lab making things fizzle and explode, he is here, drowning in the fluorescent light and chatter of doctors and medical students. Molly meets his eyes, but doesn't react immediately. That's good; maybe his good deed has finally paid off and they can stop speaking in code and innuendo.   
  
She saunters over to his table, shy smile plastered across her face. She is hesitant, like she's approaching a startled kitten stranded in the rain. She is not wearing lipstick, which is good. She doesn't stop to smooth her hair, which is even better.   
  
"Hello there, stranger," she greets him, "I haven't seen you in a while." That's not entirely true. She has seen him many times, through windows and half-closed doors, but she hasn't _spoken_ to him, so he supposes that's what she means. He doesn't even call her out for lying to him. John will be so _proud._  
  
"I've been working," he says, stirring something on his tray that was probably spinach in a former life. There are only vegetables and a roll on Molly's plate, so she must have decided to become a vegetarian sometime after they stopped talking.  
  
"I've missed you." she tells him. She isn't leaning forward and finding excuses to touch him or stare at his wrists and collarbone, so he decides it's probably safe to answer.  
  
"I've missed you too." She smiles, and the companionable silence feels wonderfully familiar and safe. Maybe he'll even start reading her blog again. "John and I have been working on several important cases." She gives him a secretive smile.  
  
"And how is _John_?" she smirks.   
  
_What?_ Her eyebrows are raised, as if they are preteen girls at a slumber party sharing a secret, and Sherlock groans inwardly.   
  
He has to give her credit for being _almost_ right. If he were in the mood to discuss his feelings with her, Sherlock could honestly say that he finds men and women equally attractive. He can't deny that he finds aesthetic appeal in John's never-ending parade of facial expressions. But he also likes the way that Molly presses her lips together when she smiles and the way her fingertips run carefully over the pages of a clipboard when processing paperwork. When she is focused on the task at hand, she practically hums with energy and efficiency, her pen racing over pages with the same illegible medical scrawl John uses to take notes.   
  
Sherlock is a voyeur, snatching up those little details people put on display. He collects their secrets, their past experiences, and their obsessions so that he can take them out later and examine them in closer detail. These mental exercises aren't sexual, but that doesn't mean they aren't dirty and perverted in their own way.   
  
Telling her all of this would take far too much of both of their time, so he settles for "John's fine," and returns her smile.   
  
A quick glance under the table shows that she is wearing black patent high heels. Unusual for a doctor making rounds, so her shift tonight must be short. She's also probably planning to go somewhere right after work. No scuff marks, so they're brand new. There's also a glint of something silver around her neck with a large, chunky heart dangling at the end. The gems are small enough to be real diamonds, but it also looks new. Definetly not something Molly would pick out for herself, though. This was a gift, which could only mean...   
  
Sherlock looked up from Molly's neckline.  
  
"Where is he taking you?" he asked.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Your new boyfriend?" She grins, and she is lovely when she blushes.  
  
"He's picking me up tonight," she whispers, conspiratorially, "I'm not sure where we're going yet. It's a surprise." Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
"Don't go," he says, "You've only been on one date with this man; how do you know he can be trusted?" She puts down her spoon, and stares at him. He expects her to ask how he knows how many dates they've been on. John would, but Molly isn't as impressed by Sherlock's parlor tricks.   
  
"Why would you think he can't be trusted?"  
  
"Why wouldn't he tell you where you were going?" Sherlock has won the argument, but once again, she doesn't seem to appreciate it. She glares at him.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes, I really have no idea what goes on in that mind of yours," she says. It doesn't sound like a compliment. "First, you ignore me for weeks on end, and now that I'm seeing someone, you want to talk to me again? Are you jealous or just bored?"  
  
 _Can't I be both? Or neither?_  
  
"You should break it off with him now," he cautions. Molly is staring at him, face contorted in confusion. She finally shakes her head.  
  
"I think you're overreacting," she concludes. She gets up to discard the tray, most of the food untouched.  
  
Sherlock is racing after her. He catches up with her easily, blocking her entrance to the morgue. He manages to catch his breath.  
  
"Will you at least tell me his name so I can track him after you disappear?" he asks.   
  
"Sherlock," she says softly, pursing her lips, "you've had your chance."  
  
"His name," he demands, "Please, Molly." She rolls her eyes.  
  
"It's Jim."   
  
"Jim." he repeats, committing it firmly to memory along with Molly's shoes and accessories.   
  
"Keep your mobile switched on," he tells her. She is not meeting his eyes, staring into the distance without blinking.  
  
"I'd finally gotten over you," she says softly, "Please don't do this."  
  
And she walks past him, through the doors, a flurry of irritation and wounded pride.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a connection to be made, and his subconscious has already made it. He frowns at Molly's back, willing the information to come to his frontal lobe. Is this jealousy? It's possible that he's have an emotional response to losing Molly's full attention, but there's something else, some other detail he saw. It stays stubbornly buried in his subconscious. His brain has turned into an alarm system, chiming out over and over _Don't let her leave this building._ He closes his eyes against the painful fluorescent lights. He's had either too much caffeine or not enough, and he needs to _think_.  
  
He opens his eyes slowly to glance out the window, and the details slide conveniently into place. There is a black car with tinted windows circling the parking lot. It's too short to be one of Mycroft's, but definitely not one he'd ever seen in the parking lot before. The way the wheels are swaying slightly suggests there's something heavy in the trunk. _Weights, or weapons, or explosives-_  
  
He ducks out of sight, breath coming in short, painful bursts. He fumbles in his coat pocket for his mobile phone, adrenaline finally pumping through his veins and causing the world to make sense again, and it is _glorious_. He quickly types out a message.  
  
 _I think I'm being followed. And not just by you. Black car, antique, can't see licence number from here. SH._   
  
It will probably be intercepted before it gets to Mycroft. He's counting on "Jim" to have thought of that. Sherlock will probably disappear before the night is over, but he can put his flatmate and his brother on the right trail. As for his friend...coworker...whatever, he can at least get her out of the building.   
  
He sprints down the hallway, listening for the sound of heels clicking on linoleum. Molly isn't hard to find. She is frowning at something on a clipboard. A form, or something way less important than getting her out of the hospital alive.  
  
"Molly!" he yells, panting for breath, "Molly, I've worked it out!" She raises her eyes from the clipboard.  
  
"Oh?" she says, as if he just informed her of the weather, "Worked what out?"  
  
"Jim," he says, "Your boyfriend. He's... he's using you to get to me."  
  
He pauses for a moment, waiting for her to be impressed. She presses her lips together, the way she usually does when she's suppressing emotion.  
  
"He's... using me to get to someone he's never met?" she asks.  
  
"That's just it. He's been following me," Sherlock explains, trying to speak slowly enough for her to process the new information.  
  
"That's absurd," she says quietly, "Why are you so jealous all of the sudden?" It's as though she's trying to convince herself rather than him, and Sherlock wishes John were there instead of seeing a film with Sarah. This is a _John_ problem. Patient, understanding John could probably explain this to her without hurting her feelings.  
  
Well, Molly's _feelings_ are not his main concern right now. In an impulsive, clumsy move, he grabs her wrist and touches his lips to hers.   
  
He misses her mouth completely, catching her cheek instead, and unceremoniously knocks the clipboard out of her hand. He finds that her waist curves in just the right places for him to wrap his arms around her. She is completely frozen for a moment, stunned. Then she reaches up gently to touch his face, to stroke his hair as she opens her mouth to let his tongue into hers. Sherlock doesn't really like kissing or being touched, but his hands are hungry for the tactile sensation of fabric and the warmth of her skin. His fingertips find the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrists, where he can faintly feel her pulse. He runs his thumbs over them in soothing circles and curves. He doesn't want to tell her that he is making a false promise, that the soft curves and sharp angles of her body take on a different meaning for him. And the sensation of being touched is too much for his brain to process at once, so he withdraws slowly, moving out of reach.   
  
"Let's go somewhere," he says, "some place that serves coffee."  
  
She lets out a breathless "uh-huh" before she catches her breath.   
  
Only then does he realize how much- and in how many ways- he is going to regret this.


	4. Chapter 4

Once they step outside, his lips feel cold. They were warm a minute ago, shoved awkwardly against Molly's, feeling the blood rushing to them. He’s remembering the feeling of the lab coat’s cheap, stiff fabric between his fingertips and how full of breath and warmth she was when he kissed her. The sensation was pleasant. Familiar. Safe. He wouldn’t mind doing it again as long as she didn’t try to touch him everywhere at once. God, how he wishes he were allowed to request that of her. It would make things so much simpler.

What else would she be willing to do? What if he asked her to strike him with a blunt object so he could see when and where the bruises emerged? What if he asked her to let him...

No.

In the back of his mind, he hears a voice that sounds a lot like John's telling him to stop this immediately. It's wrong to take advantage of Molly's affections, even if it is in the interest of science. He has to take a moment to sulk, because that had sounded like fun.

He would like to be back in the lab with Molly, sharing coffee while they compared the relative sizes of bruises on their shins and forearms. There was probably a paper to be written on the subject. Maybe Dr. Hooper's background in forensic medicine could lend a perspective that would...

No, He derails that thought because he knows it could mushroom into a full-blown obsession if he lets it. Delete, he whispers to himself.

To be fair, it isn't the most reprehensible idea that had ever crossed his mind. He is still a slave to his wants and urges, just like everybody else, and even he can recognize how dark some of them are.

If it were anyone else, he probably wouldn't bother with little details like moral implications or long term psychological damage. He has one of those fleeting moments where he wonders if there isn't, in fact, something terribly wrong with his mind. As an instrument for capturing and synthesizing details, it is flawless. But he feels like it's tuned into a different frequency than normal people.

And he suspects Molly is exactly the same way; living somewhere just outside the boundaries of normal, and trying to cover it up.

He doesn't have much time to wonder about that, as he pulls Molly to the other side of the door, checking for headlights and listening for roaring engines.

"Where are we going?" she asks. They haven't said a word since the awkward kiss in the hallway.

"Um," he replies. He hasn't really thought that one through. Out of this building as fast as we can is probably not going to work. "There's a diner across the street from here"

"Across from here? I don't think there's-"

They do not get two steps into the street before Sherlock feels himself being yanked away from her. Her fingers are jerked from his, and he looks up in horror to see Molly being restrained by two men. Her screams are muffled by a gloved hand. Sherlock quickly grabs all the data he can from their kidnappers: black gloves, no signs of fraying at the edges, brand new. Shoes look new, but there's some scuffing around the edges of both of them. Their faces are covered, but Sherlock can barely see an edge of perfectly smooth skin at the jawline.

As Sherlock's own captors pull him away, he rolls his eyes.

"Molly!" he shouts, "It's all right! Don't worry!"

The muffled noises she makes let him know that she is very worried and is not at all convinced that it's all right. Since his brain can't find words in any language that could convince Molly not to worry about being abducted and shoved into a dark car.

"It's all right! I know where we're going!" he continues to shout, as his legs are picked up and restrained. When he is deposited into the backseat of a limousine, he turns to glare at the front seat. The door next to him opens, and Molly is placed beside him. The door closes behind her, and the locks click into place.

"I lied to her," he says, "it is not all right, Mycroft."

The privacy screen between them comes down.

"Good to see you again as well, Sherlock," Mycroft greets him, "Molly." Molly's eyes are saucer-wide.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," she says, "This was my fault I'm so sorry." The alarm bells are going off in Sherlock's brain again.

"There's no reason to apologize," Mycroft says. He probably means to sound reassuring, but he winds up sounding more intimidating than ever. "You were a great help to us, and my agents were able to identify Jim Moriarty. It was Nancy Drew here who nearly destroyed our chances, not you."

'"You were working together? This whole time?" Sherlock nearly spits the words.

"I wanted to tell you, Sherlock," Molly says, "this man... Mycroft Holmes, told me that 'Jim' was really named Moriarty, and that he was trying to get to you. I wanted to protect you." Her words have gone soft and gooey again, and Sherlock is regretting that he ever stepped foot into the hospital.

"Yes, I wanted to keep her from going out alone with a serial murderer. Clearly, an inappropriate interference." He narrows his eyes at Mycroft. "Where is John?"

"Don't worry," Mycroft assures him, "John and Sarah are on their way to another safe house. Theirs is on the continent. It has a beach view. And frankly, I think they'll appreciate the privacy." He gives Sherlock one of those Meaningful Looks that makes him want to punch his brother in the face.

"You just said 'another' safe house." Sherlock observes.

"That's why you're famous for your deductive skills," Mycroft agrees.

"By 'another,' you mean..." Sherlock trails off, in a tone that indicates that Mycroft had better finish that sentence, and quickly.

"I mean be glad we packed a bag for you both," says Mycroft, "because you're not going back to London while Moriarty is alive."

"You don't know what you-" Sherlock protests. The barrier separating Sherlock and Molly from Mycroft and the driver goes up, cutting Sherlock off in mid-sentence.

He is left sulking in the backseat, with Molly staring at his shadow in the darkness.

"Well, if you want to say something, say it," he snaps.

"I know you're angry," she breathes, "he said I had to keep this from you to keep you safe."

"I'd feel better if you said that he had bribed you," Sherlock sulks, "at least that would make sense."

"He did bribe me," Molly admits.

"What did he offer you?"

"A promotion at work, and a week's paid vacation," she says, "which I'm getting now, I suppose."

"Interesting. Did he offer you the chance to spend it with me as well?"

"No," she sighs, "but he bet me that you would kiss me before tonight was over." Oh, that is too much, even for Mycroft. There was throwing your weight around, and then there was... this.

"Not like him to be so informal," says Sherlock, "he probably wanted to make sure you were loyal to his side. If you started to develop feelings for 'Jim,' you might not be so quick to help my brother" Feeling even more petulant, Sherlock knocks at the window, "You can stop driving in circles now. I know where we are."

"You think I'd protect Jim Moriarty?" she asks. "After they told me he was trying to hurt you? Look, I don't care if you don't... feel for me. I don't even care if you don't talk to me. I'm still your friend."  
"One street over," Sherlock yells, "now we're circling the block. We've just passed the Chinese Restaurant. Now we're headed south." Mycroft doesn't respond. "You're just going in circles now! It's giving me a headache."

"Sherlock," Molly says, "we're not going in circles." And then the entire world goes dark at the edges. Sherlock manages to utter a curse before his head hits the back of the seat and everything disappears into a drug-induced oblivion.


End file.
